The Song of Matty Unman, or The Tramp Doth Protest Too MuchAT WHICH THE UNLAWFUL COPYING APPEARED TO HAVE OCCURRED. THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING THE RIGHTS OF COPYRIGHT OWNERS.by Anonymous

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In the Beginning Was Unman

Or

The Pabst Is Prologue

How fit to write the beginning after absolute ending!Such is history. And such is this poem and what follows.Behold, the counterfeit presentment of two men:Unman on the one, and Carreon on the other,Like a satyr to Hyperion or a used condom to a newThis prologue and its mate aim the reader to shewThe difference. Unman is spoken of sufficientlyBelow, as the reader will surely find, if he or sheHas a mind so daring, a heart so pure and bowelsThat are not easily upset. Carreon, however, weHave not given his due: a white hat lawyer shiningIn his Birkenstocks while driving his Prius chariot,If Arthur had needed a litigator, Carreon wouldHave been his man, nascent time-travel permitting.Carreon puts his mouth where his money is, quiteUnlike Unman, and his money where his mouth is.He fights injustice with justice, a holy, a righteousHash-pipe Jerry Garcia would envy in hand as well as a store of research chemicals an amateur pharma-Cologist like myself can only stand back and admire.His deeds are righteous as he is, as his litigation is,As his aims and means are. So when faced with a piss-Ant plebian po-dunk would-be artist who engagesIn defamation and personal attacks, he took the high-Road and went to court. Thereafter, this Noble PoetTook upon himself to sort this ignoble argument intoIts noble and ignoble parts. The ignoble ones belongTo Unman, the noble to Carreon, like true spoils to the Victor or the pure winged-horse of Plato’s imaginationOnly being drawn by a pure charioteer in a pure chariot:Unman is that ignoble horse that drives only himself tonose-dive himself only further down from whichever depthHe had been in, to find himself no better than he was fresh From the womb, nor so good as he will be entombed.That said, pass round the Pabst, and you shall hear wondersOf Unman’s ineptitude in the day and in the night, and,Soon enough, his own drear person’s twilight throughMine poetical alchemic transformations! Men and women!, gird your loins for my matchless well-metered excitations!Prepare for past, present and future Unman execrations!

Part the First

Matty Unman sat and stared in star-spangled underwear at the image upon his four matching mega screens: each portrayed the same sorry visage, for each monitor was asleep: the image was his own, faux-haggard with hipster stubble, a glaze of oily skin peering from above an ironic t-shirt rising off a tailored pair of thrift shop jeans. He realized the monitors were off in his stupor and began to admire his bedhead hair, his fetch-stained designer underwear, the costly cost of being a frivolous frat boy in his late-twenties.

He rose himself in his dissheveled splendor, afternoon after a long D-list bender: Carson Daily sure can drink, more than Matty “Michelob Ultra” Unman can usually think. He brought himself to summon a vassal with the shake of a velvet tassel. “Grunt, make me my caviar omelette! The hour is late! I must eat and drool and masturbate!' Off went Poor Vassal, fearing Unman's charming tassel. “Glad I am that my master assumed his precious velvet robe for I am wary of yet another mid-afternoon anal probe.”

After gnashing at his omelette, Unman commenced to drip from his lower lip as was his fashion. Another comic had come to mind, but first he must make love to his most beloved. Thus he fell to furious wanking in the kitchen: “Babe, I love you, I love you!” he exclaimed between grunts, tugging at his meager manhood while admiring his stubble in the mirror he had installed within his breakfast nook. Two minutes elapsed. The hard work of self-pleasure done, he receded to his computer again to take the life out of fun.

He sketched out the laborious labor ahead of him: how to make one hour's work seem like ten: “Dogs, yes, dogs. I can write about dogs. Their behaviors are ironic. This suits me best. I can compile the ready-made ironies of a pet and fob it off as my own work. There will be text There will be dogs. There will be tepid text about dogs.” “Yes!” Unman exclaimed, “I could reside within a dog's turd and count myself the king of infinite shit but that I have the courage to be a perfect public mediocrity.

“Behold, my readers! I am your devious dullard king! I have so many readers, and will have more, since most of you are breeders.” The masses applaud, vomit forth noise with their mouths: “Give us more, Matty Unman! We despise ourselves enough to read your treacle. Within thine realm of insolent fatuous pulp, you are without equal!” Matty Unman fell out of his happy daydream. Three cosmos too many was too much: He would list and draw and such and such and such.

The cartoon complete, the goal achieved. He leaned back in his exquisite Herman Miller chair and heaved. “Never trust that bastard Carson again. I will injure him for this with my trusty pen!” And then he yawned and then he drooled and Matty Unman gave a cursory glance to the little clock on the corner of his screen. “I have labored an hour at this bestial art. I have writ of poop and balls and vomiting and eating that very poop. My minion readers will adore it! My blessed mindless troop!”

Part the Second

We left our hapless hero in beatific bliss, having duped his followers with a skidmark disguised as a comic. He sent the precious parcel to his intern, a young lady well-endowed to the tune of 36D and utterly gag-reflex free. She giggled a very blonde giggle and posted the tripe, then returned to debating the merits of thongs on Skype. Right pleased and rightly so, Matty Unman turned his lofty thoughts to grammar like a schoolmarm spurned.

Splendid eiron of his own life, Matty Unman spewed forth on the topic of Irony, oblivious that his notions were as old as Aeschylus' Orestia, 458 BCE at least. This ignorance did not deter. To his fans he must defer! Verbal, situational and dramatic irony met with his mind and each curled up and rotted like an old orange rind. Lack of information and wit were no hindrance at all to our redoubtable hero. His bank accounts off-shore proved poignantly that he was not a crashing bore.

Alas, Miss 36D had missed the over-arching irony tacit in Matty Unman's grammar gripe while in her reverie of thong-thoughts: her master delivered in his illustrated tract the profound lesson that we lesser mortals should not debate Irony and endure the slur sent from on high; Matty himself was somehow exempt! He may doodle and debate and salivate despite not heeding his own words: if Matty is so far above he can dictate, blessed are we below who do not hear to insinuate.

Sheer physical distance, however, is not enough in this age. After punishing myself to read Matty's naff notions regarding dogs and grammar from afar by Internet, I bought three handles of gin and proceeded to wet mine faculties that were so dessicated and starved for actual intellection that I sought refuge in three plastic bottles' alcoholic confection. Downing bottle one and bottle two, I felt the very merry obliteration of the synapse formed from Matty's grammar miscalculation.

In this poet's gin-soaked ecstasy, he thought an experiment would be wise, so he conjured another Unman scrawl concerning the venerable semicolon. What folly this was. Even in my liquor-stupor I could see that Matty had taken elementary school grammar and coupled it with an anthropomorphic inanity quite noxious in its bland absurdity. I had learned no more and no less than a tame monkey dragged by a deranged zoophile into the wilderness to be poorly lubricated then fisted learns of tenderness. I slept and dreamt of poorly illustrated grammar taught by an albino donkey, an ass without pigment, upon a stinking prison ship I could not leave. The days of my torture I'd marked on my tattered sleeve. “More grammar! More! You will learn more!” However, I had learned all long before, though I dared not speak for I feared the unknowable grammatical horrors he might inflict. I woke terrified. How could I ever sleep peacefully again while Matty practiced his unholy grammatical zen?

Part the Third

Like dogs and grammar, zombies are thematically forever for the candid cartoonist who wishes to remain topical in perpetuity. The research for this cartoon had been achieved sometime in high school by the following means: a VHS player, TV set, Unman's parents' house unoccupied on drunken bowling for hookers night, an ounce of ganja and every zombie film ever made. And so he had the know- how and the power, as has been shown. Lock the door and get your gun! Matty's bent on boring like Jersey Shore.

Unlike every zombie film ever produced on VHS, Matty's venture into zombiedom will cost you twenty-dollars for just a poster, with free shipping, mind you. The good thing about the poster is there might be a chance of reselling the maimed pulp to a middle-school student. No middle- school student will buy VHS. Do not attend to this Most Popular Cartoon upon zombies if you have ever thought for yourself. Re-reading Master Unman's grammatic splurge again would better please the nonexistent demiurge.

A virtual zombie writing about zombies! The Irony! Has anyone seen Matty Uman eat human flesh? No? That's because he hides his zombiehood so very well; rather than eat people, he lets them eat themselves as they view the thoughts made cartoons originating from near his perineum. His sycophants' minds half- gone upon their Oatmeal arrival, he merely waits for them to enter credit card data when their minds atrophy. And so he profits. Twenty-dollars is a reasonable fee!

If you've ever been sucked into the timesuck of Facebook, The Oatmeal is just such a timeless nook of mindlessness. This zombie sketch and the other two treated just above would benefit mightily from vigorous lube-free buttlove. But I digress from zombies into truly profitable thought! Let us return to the Unman Inn, where stock zombie- thoughts are glorious good fun, every reader is deemed below average and the Innkeeper cannot but share his art despite it and the author being cheap as a truckstop tart.

If this author were like Unman, if he could so far descend in intellect, education and experience and then perpend long enough how to turn a slop trough into a money-machine, if this author could become so utterly daft, so artless and so keen, he would honorably commit good old seppuku, which is, in fact, as painful as seeing Unman at sudoku. Yet Innkeeper Unman of Oatmeal Offal will still abide a while longer in his pride and folly, as will this Poet mere for wishing Unman will do so. As soon as his next pap smear.

A few more words on zombiekind: when Unman zealots, fearless keyboard warriors, mental children escaped from distant creches descend on one who does not care for his mom (dead) illustrated seducing a bear, or feable non-charity schemes much like a lurid tryst with some uncle or cousin to provide charity monies once intended for the National Wildlife Federation and American Cancer Society, the noise is so noisome. You rant without understanding; you agree with Chief Frat Boy Unman. How unsurprisingly twee.

Part the Fourth

Writing about the present and the past are not difficult for a Poet such as I. Therefore I now assay to the occult! to tell the future of Matty Unman as he will be sooner or later depending on his own vacillations, ineptitude and regular bouts of mental constipation that would require God's own finger to dislodge the feces of his mind. But the deity is not to be disturbed. Matty, hear now your state to be! People on the whole will become more stupid or more intelligent – the former if reading your twaddle is their bent. Your days have much in store!

Let us ground our prognostications in wrinkled reality: people will only become more stupid as they gape at you and your ilk. One fine day your comics will be far above the masses who kept you in good swill. No one will understand what you wrote or drew, the culmination of your miserable work. Tis true! Instead, they will wonder how you ever paid the bills as you wander the streets in search of new shills who will accept you as you are: lowest heap among hills.

Wander you will and wander you must. From truckstop to truckstop you will wearily tread only to wait in the lavatory for the latest unwashed obese trucker with two loads in his pants, and both of them for you. Oh Irony! As you sit upon the throne, the fellow unzips lustily and smacks his lips. You wrap your lips around his member as you try to ignore the smegma scent rolling off his groin. He fucks your throat as gently as a hurricane lands in Haiti. You hold your breath and swallow. In your mouth a twenty.

And nevermind the second load you could not manage, for you were full of moldy cock cheese and rank jism then and thus begged off much methane before a fecal feast. A lonely trucker is a difficult beast. With head bowed, you leave the restroom, attempting to put your jaw back into place while removing long and curly pubic hairs from your teeth. The twenty dollars in your unwashed pocket, you head, self-loathing, to the next truck stop wishing that they'd wash and trim before the unzip and pop.

Self-love alone keeps you alive now, as it did not so long ago when the distracted multitude belched their praise in your general direction. As you huddle beneath an over- pass in the night for shelter, you think of the grand old days of dogs and grammar. “I was a star! It was the restroom stalls that got smaller!” Lice and other vermin pick at your body as you try to rest, two pints of long- haul trucker jizz perturbing your bowels. Oh, the hours and the howls! The longing for your frat boy ivory towers!

We might leave you here, and we will. Matty Unman, king of the underpass and twenty-dollar deep-throat truckstop blowjobs must have his nap. May flights of vermin sing you to your sleep, sweet prince of slime, darling middle-aged sperm-rag. Dream of the next day when the hirsute truckers wish to unzip and fart and play. A man in a black Mercedes stops by your shuddering side. The back right door opens, and a ringed hand beckons. Poor Vassal with a velvet tassel says: “Now what you reckons?”